


Breathless

by FestiveFerret



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dating, Domestic, Falling In Love, Fighting for love, Fluff, Hanahaki Disease Variant, Happy Ending, Hiding Illness, Illness, Lucky the pizza dog - Freeform, M/M, MCU with comic aspects, Medical Stress/Diagnosis, Mentions of past one-sided Bucky/Steve, Minor Steve Rogers/Tony Stark, Pining, Romance, Some angst, Steve Is a Good Bro, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 15:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15221768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FestiveFerret/pseuds/FestiveFerret
Summary: Bucky finds out that his unrequited love for Clint is slowly killing him. But he's not going to take it lying down.





	Breathless

**Author's Note:**

> Huge, enormous thank yous to my artist, phae/riann who was such a blast to work with! You can see the art post [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15214418/chapters/35286785)
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta as well, ashes0909 <3
> 
> And thank you to the lovely mods for running the event!

 [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/158209291@N04/29417981518/in/dateposted-public/)

 

It started with Lucky.

There was a spot at the back of the gym, a small room. Bucky didn't know what it was for, if it had ever had a purpose. Maybe Stark had meant to put in a sauna but never got around to it. It had one window, but it faced the open sky, no other tall buildings close enough to obscure the view. There was nothing in it, but it was empty in a comfortable way, like a nook, not a cage, and Bucky started going there when his apartment suddenly felt like it belonged to someone else.

He'd leave the door open, and JARVIS was allowed to tell Steve where he was. It wasn't like he was hiding or something. For him, it was more like yoga or meditation, at least the way Nat and Bruce explained it. He was used to being reset, maintained, but now there was no one doing that for him anymore. He had to oil his own machinery. He didn't want to go back on the ice, but his mind wasn't used to holding so much in it for so long, so sometimes he needed to sit somewhere empty and just… be.

He stretched his legs out long in front of him and rolled his ankles out, eyes fixed on a small puff of cloud that made its way lazily across the clear blue. The tile floor and wall sapped enough heat through his clothes that he was comfortably cool without being cold. It was an almost-reset, clearing a cache, closing tabs, whatever computery term Tony would use to describe it.

Toenails clicked on the tile, and Bucky looked up to see a yellow lab trot through the open door. He had bright eyes and a dorky smile, and when he stopped a few feet away and sat down, his tongue lolled out of his mouth.

"Hey, Lucky," Bucky said. They'd met, a few times, but he'd never seen the dog without his owner. "Barton with you?"

Lucky, of course, said nothing, but he shuffled closer. He stuck his face in Bucky's for a moment, but when Bucky batted him away with a grunt he collapsed instead, sprawling out on the floor hard enough that Bucky winced. Lucky rolled on his back, his feet folding over to dangle loosely and wagged his tail back and forth like a whip.

Bucky reached out, almost on autopilot, and settled his hand on Lucky's tummy. It was the metal hand - Lucky had chosen Bucky's left side - but he was a dog and thought his fluffy soft toy was a real squirrel so Bucky figured he probably wouldn't care.

As it happened, he didn't. As soon as Bucky touched him, his tail broke into double time whapping back and forth hard enough that it stung when it hit Bucky's thigh.

"You're easy, aren't you?" Bucky dug in with his fingers, scratching up and down Lucky's ribs and the dog stretched out and wriggled in place.

"Hey, kibble-for-brains!" a voice called from the gym. "Where'd you go?"

"He's in here," Bucky said with a sigh, his quiet reset time completely ruined now.

Clint appeared in the doorway. "Hey, man. Sorry about the fleabag."

"It's fine." Bucky scratched again, and Lucky twisted to look up at his owner but didn't get up.

"I see how it is," Clint said. "I give you a bath one time and now you go and find a new owner."

Bucky snorted. "I think I'm just a fling. He'll be back to you for dinner time."

"Fair enough." To Bucky's surprise, Clint didn't take Lucky and go, instead he slid down the wall on the other side of the dog until they were both sitting on the floor with Lucky between them. "This is a cool spot."

Bucky tried not to roll his eyes. Humouring the damaged ex-soldier wasn't exactly a new experience for him, but it didn't make it any less stupid. "Sure."

"I forget, sometimes, that it's not as easy for other people to turn off the world."

"What?"

Clint tapped his ear. "I can take them out, close my eyes, and it's nothing but white noise."

"Oh." Bucky pondered that. "I see things when I close my eyes," he said, after a moment.

He wasn't sure what he expected Clint to do with that, but saying, "Ah," and reaching out to grab each of Lucky's front paws in a hand, waggling them back and forth, wasn't it. Clint cooed at the dog while Bucky watched, somewhat flummoxed.

"He's trained, you know." Clint switched to Lucky's ears, folding them over the dog's eyes then dodging his hands out of the way when Lucky flailed his open mouth back and forth, trying to wrestle.

"Trained to do what?"

"Lots of stuff. Service stuff. He got the first level of guide dog training and then they booted him because he occasionally does whatever he wants instead of listening. I used him in undercover missions a few times so he even has the vest. He thinks he's all fancy when you put it on. But yeah, they trained him for a bunch of things…" Clint trailed off pointedly, as if that answered some question Bucky didn't know and hadn't asked.

"Okay."

"You bored?"

"Right now?"

"No, like in general."

Bored wasn't a concept Bucky really connected to anymore. Sometimes he was… flat. "Maybe?"

Clint reached out and patted his knee. "Come and let me beat you up in Street Fighter some time. Come on, Lucky." Clint stood, and Lucky bounced to his feet and followed him out.

Bucky watched them go, not entirely sure what had just happened.

**

Bucky wouldn't have done anything about it, except two weeks later, Clint texted him. He didn't know Clint even had his number, but it had to be him because the whole message was, _Could you take Lucky for a walk? We're stuck on a mission and my usual sitter is sick._

Bucky blinked at his phone screen for a moment then shrugged.

_Does he need food or anything?_

_One scoop from the bin. Or half a pizza, you know, whatever._

_Dogs shouldn't eat pizza._

_Try telling him that._

Lucky barked and spun and wagged his tail when Bucky stepped into Clint's apartment, and proceeded to almost entirely lose his mind when Bucky reached for the leash. They went for a walk, and Bucky was surprised by how easy it was. Nice, even. In the end, Bucky brought his dinner up too and they ate together, watching football on Clint's massive TV.

It was easy, then, to say yes when Clint next asked, and the more he said yes, the more Clint asked.

Lucky never seemed bothered by Bucky taking him out instead of Clint, and just having the dog at his heel was a comfort. When a car backfired, or the wind slammed a door shut, Bucky could look to Lucky, smiling, unworried, and know that it was okay.

After a few weeks, Bucky had started showing up uninvited to join them on their walks too, and from there it was movies, sharing meals, and playing Street Fighter. And Lucky stayed the glue for their friendship even now, months later. Lucky and Clint kept Bucky going outside because Clint would text him a sad dog emoji if he went too many days without knocking on Clint's door, and Bucky offered Clint… he wasn't sure actually. But Clint always seemed happy to see him, and it never seemed like he thought Bucky was a charity case, and Bucky didn't care if Clint left his hearing aids out and they just sat in comfortable silence together, reading or playing games online.

**

Today, the nice weather was calling, so Bucky made his way down to Clint's floor. He knocked on the door and heard Lucky barking followed by a crash and Clint swearing. By the time Clint wrenched the door open, Bucky had managed to school his expression into one of passive indifference, but at the sight of Clint, still in his pajamas, wild-haired and disheveled, he couldn't suppress a snort.

Clint was looking at Bucky's mouth in a pointed way that meant his hearing aids weren't in, so Bucky enunciated carefully when he said, "You have Cheerios on your foot."

Clint looked down. There was a white splash over his black sock, and a dotting of little cereal rings, like a collection of stars forming a grain-based constellation on his foot. Lucky trotted over and started licking them up. "Not for long!" Clint said with a grin. "What d'ya want?" He managed to say it in a way that didn't feel accusatory.

"Walk?" Bucky offered.

"Sure." Clint stepped back to let Bucky in, and as he stepped through the doorway, he could see the upturned bowl on the floor with milk and Cheerios spread around it. When Clint moved, Lucky abandoned his foot to run back and start cleaning up the mess on the floor.

Clint reached down and pulled both socks off, then disappeared into his bedroom. Bucky picked up the bowl and set it on the counter, letting Lucky finish his cleaning. When he was done, Bucky tossed down a handful of paper towels and pushed them around with his foot, wiping up the labrador drool.

"You didn't have to do that," Clint said from the doorway, pulling a shirt over his bare chest.

Bucky shrugged. "Lucky did all the work."

Clint snorted and bent to pick up the paper towels then tossed them in the trash. "Alright, let's go!" He looked at Lucky with his hands on his hips. "Walk?"

Lucky barked and turned in two circles then ran for the hooks by the door. He gripped his leash between his teeth and pulled it down, bringing it back to Clint with a doggie grin. Clint hooked him up and led the way out of the apartment.

They made their way to the park in comfortable silence, Lucky bounding along at the end of the leash but making sure not to pull. He would stop to sniff every street lamp, then seem to remember where they were going and leap to the end of the leash again, only to repeat the ridiculous dance at every subsequent lamp post.

When they hit the park, Clint unclipped Lucky's leash and followed him across the grass while Bucky sat on his favourite bench by the water fountain. Despite Lucky's love for fetch, Clint never thought to bring a ball. Bucky watched as Clint dug around under a scraggly tree, looking for a stick to throw. Bucky stretched his arms long across the back of the bench and kicked his legs out. The sun was warm on his skin, and even on the metal of his left arm. He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, basking in it.

A shout from across the park snapped his eyes back open, and he looked up in time to see a large, soggy-looking stick, with Clint at one end and Lucky at the other, bits of rotting bark spraying between them as they shook it.

"I can't throw it until you give it to me you filthy animal," Clint growled, and Lucky growled right back, playfully shaking his head, cracking the stick further. "Fine." Clint let go of the stick suddenly, and Lucky staggered backwards. He righted himself and looked up at Clint with a look that Bucky could only describe as considering, then he dropped the stick. Lucky smiled at Clint, sitting down and wagging his tail fiercely back and forth.

Bucky suppressed a chuckle that broke into a full laugh when Clint bent to pick up the stick and Lucky dove in and grabbed the other end again before he could lift it out of reach. Clint swore impressively then dropped the stick, making a dive at Lucky that looked intended to break into a rugby tackle. Lucky took off, the stick hanging three feet out of the side of his mouth and making him list dramatically to the right as he ran.

Clint was out of Bucky's hearing now, but Bucky could imagine the string of curses he was muttering under his breath. He was smiling, though, darting to the side to try and cut Lucky off unsuccessfully. Four legs managed to outpace two, and it wasn't long before Clint gave up, slumping dramatically to the ground. Lucky liked this game much better, and he dropped the stick to do a cannonball onto his owner's stomach, starting from several feet away to get as much height as possible before slamming his doggy feet into Clint's gut.

Clint folded like a switchblade and tackled Lucky to the ground, rolling with him while Lucky flailed with his mouth.

Bucky watched them wrestle with an amused smile he couldn't seem to hold back. A warmth bloomed in his stomach, and he twitched on the bench, the smile fading. The warmth twisted into a swarm of fluttering butterflies that bashed and bounced their way around Bucky's gut. He looked back at Clint, and his breath caught.

Shit.

This was a feeling he knew; this was a feeling he'd had before. Once for the dame who helped out at the library after school when he was fourteen, and once, four years later, when he hugged Steve goodbye and realized that all he wanted was to stay behind with his stupid best friend. Those feelings had both faded - one when the girl at the library had spurned his advances for Bill Water and the other when they had met up again in the middle of a warzone and Bucky realized that their friendship was much more important than anything else.

Besides, he'd always been more into the straggly little back-alley fighter than Captain America. The library dame was long dead, and Steve had found his own love - to Bucky's immense surprise in the arms of Howard Stark's son - and now, for the first time in over a hundred years, Bucky was feeling the stirrings of something again. Something for Clint.

He stared, heart pounding and lungs seizing, while Clint played until, panting heavily, a sheen of sweat across his brow, Clint came over and flopped onto the bench beside him. "Thanks for the help," he said, with a sharp poke to Bucky's side.

"Fuck you," Bucky shot back. "I walked all the way here. That's all the exercise I need today."

"Wow, I didn't think the Winter Soldier would turn out to be so lazy."

"I'm retired now, jackass. I've earned a little lazy." Bucky smiled at Clint, and Clint smiled back, releasing another flutter of winged insects in his gut.

"You sure have." Clint patted his elbow.

Lucky snuffled around in the grass, and Bucky and Clint sat side by side. Bucky's chest constricted tighter and tighter as the warmth from the man beside him started to seep through his clothes until he could feel the difference between the side next to Clint and the side facing the sun. He coughed around a new tightness in his throat - what was he, five? Clint wasn't his fucking middle school crush. Bucky shook his head violently and tried to push those feelings to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the easy friendship they'd had since he'd moved in, Lucky's antics giving him something to fix his eyes on.

When the dog took off after a squirrel, and Clint had to chase him halfway across the park to get him back, Bucky declared the outing over. He clipped the leash to Lucky's collar and led him off, not bothering to hand the leash back to Clint. He liked the feeling of Lucky trotting along beside him. It was comforting.

They parted in the elevator, Bucky getting off at his floor. He got the impression that Clint intended to invite him over to watch a movie or something, but even Bucky could tell he was radiating tension, hunched on the other side of the elevator, and Clint snapped his mouth shut again. Bucky mumbled a goodbye when the doors opened and marched straight into his apartment, taking two, full-speed turns around the space before settling on the couch - and in his mind.

He couldn't pursue Clint. First off, the man clearly didn't see him like that; he'd never shown the slightest interest in Bucky beyond friendship. And besides, Bucky was the new kid in the class. He couldn't disrupt the easy camaraderie the team had by making time with one of the Avengers, one of Steve's friends. So, that was it. Just like he had done in the past, he'd push these feelings aside, ignore them, and in a few months, they'd be back to being friends.

Simple.

**

"Are you slacking, old man?" Steve called from ten feet in front.

Bucky looked up from where he'd been staring at the ground, surprised to find he'd fallen so far behind. He pushed to catch up, and his lungs ached with the effort of his heavy breathing. The park flashed by, nearly a blur, but Bucky still categorized everyone that passed by. _Not a threat. Not a threat. Not a threat._ He coughed to clear his throat and stretched out, trying to find a rhythm beside Steve. He felt tired and heavy, as if he were physically weighed down by his newly bloomed feelings.

He could tell Steve… Steve would understand. But Steve would also bug him about it, tell him he should do something, say something. Bucky wasn't ready for that. He didn't think he'd ever be ready.

But if he kept trailing behind, Steve was going to notice anyway and pester him until he gave it up. Bucky pushed even harder, challenging himself to stay one stride ahead of Steve for as long as he could, and something in his chest… failed. Like a gear slipping out of joint with its partner, Bucky suddenly no longer had the use of his lungs.

He stumbled to a stop, flailing out with one hand until he caught the trunk of a tree. He hauled in air as sharply as he could, but his body screamed for more. Finally, on the next breath, something caught right and he could breathe again. It was short and sharp. and his chest ached and whined but the thudding pain and desperate plea for oxygen faded. He panted heavily, unable to straighten up.

Steve's hand landed lightly on his shoulder, ever conscious of what might be too startling. "Buck? You okay?"

Bucky nodded, waving his free hand in acknowledgement. He coughed several times in a row, and that seemed to ease something else in his chest as well. It was still tight, unpleasantly tight, but he was breathing almost normally. He finally stood and smacked Steve on the arm. "I'm fine, Stevie, I'm fine. Don't freak out on me. Something just went down the wrong way, I guess."

Steve pouted like a little girl and gave him a shove back. "I wasn't freaking out. Just wondering if making you eat my dust all the time has finally caught up with you." He grinned, and Bucky could see the relief there.

"I'll give you dust," Bucky muttered, pushing away from the tree. But when he set out running again, he was slowed, his chest still aching, his throat burning. He was tired, and it was from more than his feelings, it seemed.

But Steve appeared happy to trot along beside him at an easier pace, slowed from their all-out run to a steady jog, and Bucky was relieved not to have to say anything.

**

Over the next three days, the ache in Bucky's chest flared up at semi-regular intervals. Each time it did, Bucky felt like if he could just cough it loose, he'd be free again, but he coughed and coughed, and still, an elephant sat heavily on his chest. And getting heavier.

He managed to keep it from the others. Staying on his own, or holding back the need to clear this throat until no one was paying him any attention. It seemed to ease a bit when he was alone in his rooms, and he couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't actually physical, but rather some new manifestation of his twisted fears and anxieties. He'd gone to the SHIELD therapist they offered him a few times. It wasn't that he didn't like her, he just… didn't like therapy. But she'd said he'd feel it physically sometimes, in his heart, in his chest, a tingle in his fingers. Pain, she said, emotional pain, doesn't always stay in your head.

But he'd been getting better, he thought. He was walking Lucky, and hanging out with Clint, running with Stevie and joining in on poker night with the whole team. He felt better, in his head, but now worse in his body. What did that mean?

Unless he was sick. No one had ever tested what he could contract. In all his years as the Winter Soldier, he never had been, but who knew what drugs and concoctions HYDRA had been pumping him full of. Maybe the serum had never done as much as he thought. Maybe he wasn't like Steve, and his serum would fade away without regular maintenance. Maybe he was due for a tune-up.

After the second full day of hiding in his room, JARVIS let Bucky know that everyone was gathering on the communal floor to watch The Princess Bride. Bucky hadn't seen it, but it was on his list - and if he went any longer without showing his face, someone would be up here pounding his door down - so he pulled on pants that weren't stained with the remnants of stress-eating, and made his way down. There were open pizza boxes on the coffee table, and Nat, Bruce, Clint, Steve, and Lucky were already sprawled over the various chairs and couches that framed the TV.

Bucky turned to the kitchen for a beer, and was intercepted by Tony, who shoved one in his hands with a wink, then disappeared back into the kitchen. Bucky went back and sat on the couch next to Clint, beer in hand. Lucky took up half the couch on the other side of them, his back feet in Clint's lap, soft snores leaking out, his lips lax enough that Bucky could see the tip of his tongue peeking out.

The movie started, and Bucky settled in to watch, but the next time he sucked in a breath, it caught, and he hacked it back out again. Clint's hand landed on his back, patting lightly. "You okay?"

Bucky nodded, but he still couldn't seem to draw a clear breath. He set his beer down and made for the bathroom. Once alone, he was able to meet his own eyes in the mirror and will himself to calm down. He could breathe, he'd just swallowed the wrong way. It was scary, but he was fine. After a few slow breaths, he was breathing easily enough that the panic abated, but there was still something undeniably _wrong_. His breath caught and broke, hitching as if his organs were expanding, pressing his lungs smaller and smaller.  

He was rinsing his face off with cool water, washing away the hot tears that had leaked out of his eyes while he choked, when the knock came.

"Buck?" It was Steve.

Bucky pulled the door open. He grabbed a towel and wiped his face. "I'm fine, Stevie."

"You sounded awful. Is something wrong?"

Bucky shrugged. "I don't know. I don't know what could be wrong. I didn't get dosed as strongly with serum as you did, but I've never been sick. I got hit with chemical agents a few times, but that feels really different."

"Jesus." Steve ran his hand through his hair. "Can you get a cold?"

"I don't think so."

"Hmm. Is this the same as what happened on our run? When did it start?"

Bucky thought back, trying to pinpoint when it had started. He'd struggled to breathe a bit at the park last week, but he'd thought that was just unwanted feelings rearing their ugly heads. Maybe it was separate though. It did feel the same as on their run. It had been getting progressively worse since then. He breathed in long and slow and tried to expand his lungs to their full capacity, but they felt stunted, like the bottoms were squished in and the balloons couldn't expand all the way. It _hurt._ "Yeah. Maybe...maybe a couple of weeks ago."

"Buck, you have to go to the doctor." Steve loomed in the doorway, turning on the full power of his earnest blue gaze.

Bucky sighed. "I hate the doctors. They always want to poke." He poked his own metal arm in demonstration, but Steve wouldn't back down.

"You don't know what those HYDRA 'scientists' did to you. You don't know the long-term effects. I spent more time in doctor's offices than out when I first woke up, and you've barely had a basic physical. You gotta get checked out."

"Alright, alright, stop houndin' me." Bucky pushed past him, back into the living room. Bruce had taken the seat next to Clint, so Bucky sat on the other side of Lucky, lifting his head to rest it in his lap. Lucky snoozed on. Bucky caught Steve shooting him little worried glances for the rest of the evening, and it was enough to ruin his attention for the movie so by the end he had no idea how it had resolved.

But as annoying as Steve's mother henning was, he wasn't wrong. Bucky was starting to feel nervous about it. Now that he was focused on it, he could feel that the tightness in his chest wasn't fading, it was just sometimes more noticeable, like when he tried to laugh too hard, or move too quickly. He'd never had asthma, but he wondered if this was what Steve had dealt with, another lifetime ago.

When the movie was over, Bucky went upstairs and left SHIELD medical a message, and by lunch time the next day they'd called back with an appointment.

**

Steve came along to the doctor's office in SHIELD medical, and Bucky was quietly grateful for his company. Bucky hardly had to wait at all before what appeared to be a teenager in scrub pants and a Taylor Swift t-shirt was ushering him into a room at the back. The kid asked him a few questions about smoking, exercise, details of the symptoms, scribbling them down on a clipboard, then slipped out again, assuring Bucky that the doctor would be with him soon.

She wasn't. Bucky would have much preferred to wait out in the other room with Steve, but instead he shifted on the crinkly paper, alone, for what felt like an hour before Dr. Corso swung the door open.

She listened to his lungs with a look of carefully-crafted personal detachment on her face, then bustled him off for x-rays, before abandoning him to the crinkly paper again for weeks more.

The doctor came back in the room with her clipboard held in front of her chest like a shield. She popped an x-ray up on the illuminator and turned it on. She pointed with her pen. "These are your lungs."

There was a dark mass settled at the bottom of the shape she outlined. "That doesn't look good," Bucky replied. "Cancer?"

She frowned. "No, it's not cancer. Have you ever heard of Hanahaki disease?"

Bucky tilted his head, brow creasing. "The flower petal thing?"

"Ah, yes. That's the one." She tapped her pen on her clipboard. "The flower petals are just a story, actually. It comes from the fact that the mass it forms in the lungs looks like a flower. Even if you open them up, it looks like a flower."

"Isn't it - isn't it something to do with love? Are you saying that's what I have?"

"Yes, Mr. Barnes, to both those questions. Hanahaki flowers form when someone falls in love with someone who doesn't love them back. It's rare, but it happens. The masses will continue to grow until they either obstruct your breathing completely or the object of your affection loves you back. Then they recede. It seems to spontaneously go into remission, even if those feelings aren't acted upon, just felt. Because this condition is so rare, there's not a lot of research on it, but there are some websites I can direct you to. They believe it's caused by a hormonal or chemical imbalance that corrects when your beloved reciprocates those feelings, but no attempts at a cure or treatment have been successful."

"So I'm fucked, is what you're saying?"

She flinched at his harsh language but didn't say anything. "Hanahaki disease is fatal in seventy percent of cases. The other thirty all reported having their feelings eventually returned. Surgery has never been successful - the masses simply grow back - and neither has any chemical treatment or supplement."

Bucky took the deepest breath he could, rubbing his hand over the sore spot in the middle of his chest. "How long have I got?"

"You don't think your -?"

"No -" Bucky cut her off "- he doesn't - won't. It's okay, I just -"

"Probably two months, if you stay away from him. The more time you spend with him, the deeper your feelings become, the faster the disease will progress. Could be six weeks, maybe a month, if you're around him a lot."

Bucky nodded. His throat itched with the urge to cough, but he resisted, swallowing heavily. "Okay."

"You should talk to him," she said gently. "Maybe -"

"Look." Bucky coughed out the word then cleared his throat, finding enough breath to continue. "The options here are that I tell him so he can feel guilty that he doesn't love me, in time for me to die. Or I can live out the rest of the time I've got. Honestly, I never thought I'd live this long anyway." He shrugged. "At least dying for love is better than dying for war. Kinda poetic or some shit."

She pursed her lips. "Right. Well, it's your choice. I have your email in your file, I'll send you those websites. You should at least have all of the information."

"Thanks."

She pulled a paper pad out of a drawer and scribbled something on it. "Here's a script for an inhaler. It'll help ease the symptoms a little, but it won't slow the growth. Take two hits from it every time you find yourself struggling to breathe. Come back in two weeks and we can do another x-ray."

"Why?"

"I -" She pinked a little, and Bucky got the sense that she was holding back a sigh. "Some people like information, Mr. Barnes. But you don't need the updates if you don't want them."

"Right." Bucky hopped off the table and extended his hand. "Thanks, Doc."

"You're welcome."

He walked out.

Steve was sitting awkwardly in a chair made for a man that wasn't 200 lbs of pure muscle and patriotism, clutching a magazine about slow cooker meal planning and visibly trying to ignore the kid that was driving his toy car back and forth over Steve's foot. When he saw Bucky he leapt to his feet.

He didn't ask until they were strolling down the street, shoulder to shoulder, and even then, all he said was, "Buck?"

"It's a side effect of the drugs I take for pain." The lie tumbled off Bucky's lips before he had time to fully process why. He tapped his metal arm, and Steve nodded sympathetically. Bucky held up the script. "This will help."

"Oh good." Steve let out a long, relieved sigh. Steve changed their path to take them past a pharmacy, and once Bucky had his little plastic bag in a hand, an inhaler in a box sitting at the bottom with a paper sheet of instructions, Steve returned to his regular, enthusiastic puppy self.

Bucky begged off when they arrived back at the tower, citing needing a nap after the pressures of the doctor's office, and Steve let him go with only a little teasing for being an old man who napped in the middle of the day. Bucky pointed out that Steve was the one that everyone had caught snoring on the couch at three in the afternoon more days than not, and Steve let him go with a chuckle.

Instead of going to bed, Bucky slid down the back of the door to his apartment until he sat on the floor. He dug the inhaler out of the bag and turned it over a few times before putting the end in his mouth and pressing down, breathing in as hard as he could. The medicine flooded his lungs, and he felt better almost immediately. His next breath felt easier - not perfect, but easier.

He sat that way for a long time, processing.

He was dying. And because he'd been stupid enough to fall in love with Barton; there was no doubt it was him. He could feel it deep in his gut, unavoidable. What the fuck was he thinking? When he felt the first twinges of attraction, weeks ago, he should have bailed right out, avoided Clint at all costs. Because he should have known that this would kill him - not so literally, of course, he hadn't expected that - but love had never worked out well for Bucky.

He had a bad habit for falling for smart-assed, hot blondes who couldn't love him back. Steve had always seen him like a brother, and Clint was zero-percent interested in someone like Bucky. Right?

It wasn't like Clint was straight, though. Bucky rolled the idea around in his head. Clint definitely wasn't straight. He'd talked about the guy he'd messed around with in the circus, and there was that time he'd come back from the coffee shop around the corner with his ears bright pink because "the hottest fucking dude on planet earth told him his shirt was cool." So Clint was definitely interested in men.

And he didn't hate Bucky. He was willing to spend time with him. Sure, so far it had mostly revolved around Lucky, but Bucky had caught a few looks thrown his way that were warm enough to classify as affectionate.

And Clint was single. He'd bemoaned that fact a few times when Nat had forcefed him one too many cocktails.

So what the fuck did Bucky have to lose?

He was in love with Clint and dying from it; he had two options, give in and mope around for two months, sad and alone, lying to his best friend and avoiding his crush. Or he could show Barton what a fucking catch he was until he loved him back and saved his life. It'd certainly be some kind of story to tell the grandkids. Being around Clint would make his illness advance faster, but what was a month if he was going to kick it in two anyway?

With another slightly unsteady breath, Bucky nodded to himself, then pushed up off the floor, tossing the bag with it's instructions and receipt on the table.

He was going to save his own ass and show Clint Barton just how worth falling in love with he was.

**

_Do you want to go to dinner with me?_

Bucky quickly erased the text without sending it. That sounded way too much like a date. If he was going to show Barton what a kickass boyfriend he'd be, he needed them to spend time alone together, without the dog. But if he made it obvious this was a date, everything would go to shit before it had a chance to take off. Luckily, stealth missions were Bucky's strong suit.

_Dinner?_

_Want to get dinner?_

_Are you busy tonight?_

_Hungry?_

_Come to dinner._

Or not.

He erased them all and tossed his phone aside. In the end, Clint himself offered the perfect setup. An hour later, Bucky got a text from him:

_Chinese and a movie?_

Bucky quickly shot back one of his own.

_Yeah but I'm sick of takeout. Wanna go out instead? Tony's always talking about that one place._

Tony actually talked about tons of places, all the time, but this seemed like a good gamble. Clint would probably think of the one he most wanted to go to.

_Richie's?_

_Yeah_

_Sure, I'm in. 6?_

_Yeah_

Bucky stared at his phone. That had just… worked. But now he was going on a date-that-wasn't-a-date, with Clint, in less than two hours. Shit.

Bucky shoved his phone in his pocket and made his way up to the penthouse. Steve had his own apartment, but he was never in it. It was weird, at first, to invade Stark's space, but it felt like Stevie's space too, now, so he'd gotten over it. Besides, Tony was rarely there during the day.

Bucky let himself in and kicked up on the couch. "Steve?" There was no answer. He flipped on the TV. How did you woo someone who didn't know they were being wooed? There was a part of Bucky that knew this was hopeless. He and Clint already spent most of their free time together, and Bucky had fallen for him that way, but if Clint hadn't… maybe it wasn't meant to be.

Which meant Bucky was doomed to die.

He coughed then frowned at the ceiling. Apparently, just thinking about his illness made it flare up.

The door opened and shut, and Bucky peered over the back of the couch. "Hey, Steve."

"Hey, Buck. What's up?"

"Nothing. Just killing time." He watched Steve hang his jacket up. "Hey, you never told me how you and Tony got together." Bucky picked up a photo frame from the end table that had a picture of Steve and Tony in it and waved it at him in some explanation of why he'd had the thought.

"Sure, I did."

"No, you told me about that thing with the willow tree and the alien duck creature, but that was like, when you realized you were in love with him. How did you actually get to dating?"

Steve landed in the chair opposite with a huff then eyed Bucky up. "Why? You looking to get to dating with someone?"

Bucky snorted. "As if. Just curious. You had zero game back when we were going on doubles so I can't believe you managed to snag a guy as swanky as Stark."

Steve threw a pillow at him. "I didn't actually," he said thoughtfully, once Bucky had stopped swearing at him. "I chickened out for about two weeks, and then he asked me out. Said I 'wasn't being subtle but it was all for the best because he'd wanted to climb me like a supersoldier tree for about two months now.'"

"Wow."

"Yeah, that kind of sums Tony up." Steve laughed affectionately. "I told him he'd have to take me to dinner first, and he said, 'perfect,' and everything kinda fell into place. I don't want to say it's easy, because doing anything with Tony ain't easy, but it kinda is. Like, we always seem on the same page with what we want. Moving up here, sharing space, that all just came about naturally."

Bucky tossed the pillow in the air above him and sighed. Same page. If only. The giant tumors in his lungs made it very clear that he and Clint were not on the same page.

"You alright?"

"Yup." Bucky threw the pillow back at Steve, his supersoldier reflexes catching Steve in the face before he had time to defend himself. Bucky scuttled out while Steve was still spluttering. "I'm gonna be late, bye!"

"Late for what?!" Steve yelled after him, but Bucky didn't answer.

So, Stark had just gone for the straightforward approach. But Bucky couldn't do that. Primarily, because if he died of this, he was currently the only one who knew who was the cause and he wanted it to stay that way. No way was he leaving Clint behind, suffering with the knowledge that he could have saved Bucky just by loving him back. It was stupid; he couldn't control who he loved, or didn't love, but Clint would blame himself anyway. If he told Clint how he felt, it'd be pretty obvious who he'd been in unrequited love with. Additionally, if Clint rejected him, Bucky would miss out on the last month of friendship with him. It'd be too awkward, after that, to just go back to the way things were.

So, it was back to stealth. He thought about asking Natasha for help, but there wasn't time before dinner with Clint. Bucky was sure he used to be good at this, but all the people he'd dated before the war had known they were being dated. It was distinctly harder when the other person thought you were just friends.

At two past six, Bucky turned off the emergency stop on the elevator he'd been sitting in for the past twenty-five minutes and stepped out at Clint's apartment. He knocked, but when there was no answer, he pushed the door open. Clint was on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table. Bucky could see Lucky's tail hanging off the bed through the cracked bedroom door.

He came around the couch and waved at Clint who startled up and grabbed his hearing aids.

"Your doorbell sucks," Bucky told him.

Clint smiled. "He's off duty. It's six already?"

"Yeah. You still want to go?" Part of Bucky was hoping he'd say no because he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this anxious, especially since they weren't about to do anything they hadn't done plenty of times before. _You're just eating, idiot._

"Of course. Just give me a minute."

Clint bustled around for a minute while Bucky stared unseeing at his phone and tried to pretend he was sending important emails.

The walk over to the restaurant was fine. Clint had apparently had his "ears out" all day, and he was eager to talk. He recounted the entire mission they'd had the day before using carefully selected code words like 'the metal guy' in case anyone was eavesdropping. Bucky listened, chest getting tighter and tighter the longer they walked together.

"- and she just threw him. Right through the window. Hottest thing I've ever seen," Clint said with a grin, tongue peeking out between his lips. Then he blanched. "Don't tell Nat I said that."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Bucky rolled his eyes with a smile he couldn't help.

"Anyway, it was a good mission." Clint bumped their shoulders together. "You ever miss it?"

"Hmm? Nah, not really. Got a few lifetimes worth of action in already. I like hearing you talk about it though." Bucky's cheeks tingled, and he frowned at the thought that he might be capable of blushing. He resisted the urge to reach out and take Clint's hand.

"Good."

Another mission got them through to the restaurant, and then everything went off the rails. They each flipped through their menu, and then, once they'd decided what to get, heavy silence fell over the table. Bucky picked at the edge of the menu, scrambling desperately to think of something to talk about. All he could think of was the Avengers, which they'd already spent twenty minutes talking about, and Lucky. But this was supposed to be different. This was supposed to be about the two of them, but nothing happened to Bucky; he had nothing to talk about.

It didn't help that being here with Clint, wallowing in his feelings, in how badly he wanted to just reach across the table, grab him by the front of his shirt and show him, vigorously, how good they could be together, was making his chest hurt even more. Each breath was a shallow pant, and he had to resist the urge to open his mouth and suck in air as hard as he could. Every time he breathed in, his lungs caught, hitting their maximum too early and groaning with pain, radiating along his ribs and into his back. He wanted to cough after every word.

Not that there were many words happening.

Bucky grit his teeth and tried to force conversation about sports, but even he could feel how awkward and tense he sounded. Eventually, it seemed Clint couldn't ignore it anymore. "You alright, man?"

Bucky nodded. "Fine."

"So, uh, it's none of my business, but Steve said you went to the doctor…" Clint trailed off, poking his fork into a ravioli.

"Oh. Uh, yeah. It's -" Bucky gestured to his chest. "Some side effects. I'll be coughing a lot for a while. My lungs are a bit messed up. Have an inhaler now." He patted his pocket.

"That sucks, man. SHIELD Medical is great though. They'll fix you right up."

"Yeah." Bucky nodded and his eyes fell back to his menu. The conversation stayed tepid until their food came. Whenever Bucky looked up Clint was giving him a pinched, concerned look and the pressure of keeping his illness to himself threatened to crack. He knew Clint wouldn't hold it against him, would be supportive, caring - as he'd always been - but he'd sure as shit hold it against himself. And every time Bucky opened his mouth to confess, to beg Clint to love him, to _something,_ he thought about leaving Clint behind, blaming himself for Bucky's death forever, and he couldn't do it.

But he was also pretty sure he was doing a terrible job showing Clint why they should be together, why he was worth loving.

When their plates were set down but silence dragged on for another painful minute, Bucky gave up on changing the subject. "Did you teach Lucky to order pizza yet?"

Clint snorted. "I wish. Some service dog he is. He knows how to open the fridge - and leaves it open when he's pissed at me - but he still can't dial a phone."

"If he could make the connection between that and getting pizza, he'd learn pretty quickly."

"That's true. But then he'd order pizza when I wasn't home."

Bucky waved his fork in Clint's direction. "Don't bullshit me, man. You'd love to come home and find out someone else had ordered pizza for you."

Clint laughed again, light and free, and when his eyes settled back on Bucky, they were warm. Movement behind him drew Bucky's eye, and he watched the table to the left of Clint's seat for a moment then signed _Hawkeye fans behind you_ and dropped his eyes back to his plate.

Clint's eyebrows raised. _I've been spotted?_

_They're taking selfies._

Clint spun in his chair, looked right at them, smiled, and waved. Half the group blushed and half blanched. The girl in the far chair waved back, grinning, but the others hushed her quickly. "Sorry," the closest kid murmured, and they went back to their meal.

When Clint turned around again, he was smiling. "Thanks."

"I don't know how you put up with it all," Bucky said. "I'm glad no one knows who I am… for more reasons than one." He frowned, but Clint reached out and poked him until he looked up again.

_I'm glad I know who you are._

Bucky tried to tell him to shut up, or roll his eyes, or tell Clint he was getting sappy in his old age, but instead, his next breath caught more sharply in his chest than usual, and he was set off into a painful coughing fit. When it didn't pass quickly, he pushed out of his chair and made for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. He bent over the sink and coughed and coughed, until his stomach was heaving with every hack and he thought he might throw up.

Red dots splattered over the clean white porcelain of the sink, and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for a moment before turning on the tap and washing it clean. It was getting worse, not just more frequent, but more intense. He'd never coughed up blood before. He rinsed his mouth and made sure his face was clear. His eyes were a little red from the effort of coughing, but otherwise he looked as normal as a 95-year-old ex-assassin could look.

But when he sat down again, Clint kept sending him little worried glances, and Bucky couldn't find the brief moment of easy conversation again. He wished desperately that things could go back to normal, but at the same time, he thought about looking at Clint and not feeling that rush of tingly electricity, and he didn't want to give it up. Even though it was killing him, it would take a crowbar to give up this love.

Maybe this was how it was meant to be. It was certainly a nicer way to go than shot in the back of the head by HYDRA once they'd decided he was no longer worth keeping around. Or even worse, shot in the back of the head by Natasha if Steve hadn't managed to convince them to bring him in, instead. If he was going to go out on a feeling, he'd rather it be love than hate.

He had two weeks left, maybe three, to convince Clint to fall in love with him, and so far it wasn't going very well, he thought, as they walked back. He'd barely eaten, too nervous to feel very hungry, and he'd barely talked, which Clint had obviously noticed. Somehow, now that he was working towards something, instead of just enjoying their time together, he got all tongue-tied and stressed out.

It didn't get better over the next two weeks.

Bucky tried his hardest to set things up so he and Clint found themselves alone, but it didn't feel like he thought dating was supposed to feel. Clint was as kind and friendly to Bucky as he'd always been, but Bucky's chest got tighter and tighter and Clint showed no signs of his feelings shifting.

Bucky, on the other hand, was only falling deeper in love. There was absolutely no way he could deny it was Clint whose feelings were at the core of his illness. He couldn't stop looking at him, couldn't stop thinking about him. He went to sleep at night wishing Clint were beside him, dreamed about him, then woke up and wanted nothing more than to see sleepy blue eyes blinking back at him.

But the not-dates weren't working. Bucky felt increasingly stressed out about trying to charm Clint, which only made Clint more uncomfortable and Bucky more stressed out. Which then usually ended in him having a horrible coughing fit.

More than once, Bucky gave up on the whole thing. More than once he thought about telling Steve. But when it came down to it, he couldn't bear to think that he'd leave them believing that Bucky had basically died of a broken heart, carrying that guilt around as if there was anything they could have done.

The closer Bucky inched towards the end of the first month, the more he had to fight a rising feeling of panic. He didn't want to die. Sure, he'd lived longer than he had any right to already, had his second and third chances. But he wanted more time in this one. He read all the websites the doctor had sent him, but all they did was confirm what she said. Clint really had to love him back. It didn't matter if they didn't pursue a relationship, as long as Clint really loved him, Bucky would start to feel better right away.

But the days dragged on, and Bucky only felt worse.

It all came to a head one day when the whole team was scattered around the common room, draped over chairs and sofas, TV on low. Bucky was curled in a chair that had a perfect vantage point to stare at the side of Clint's head while he watched the soccer came and nibbled through a bag of chips. Bucky had a book open in his lap, but it would be generous to say he'd read more than a few pages in the last hour.

Tony and Steve came through the door, hand in hand. "Hey, bird brain!" Tony called, and Clint tipped his head over the back of the couch.

"What?"

"Catch." Tony tossed him a folded piece of paper.

Clint opened it carefully. "What's this?"

"A girl's number."

"Oooo," Natasha sing-songed from the corner. "A girl likes you."

"Don't take it too far, Nat," Tony said, "she hasn't actually met him yet. Plenty of time to go wrong." Tony and Steve started their all-together too-creepily choreographed making-lunch-dance in the attached kitchen. "She works for me. Usually if people are all 'oo will you give Hawkguy my number?' I tell them Clint doesn't have a phone, but she's actually pretty cool. Susan. She's an engineer, and as far as I know, not crazy. I told her I'd give you that, but no promises you'd use it. She did not seem like the type to cut all the hair off a barbie, glue her own on instead, wrap it in love letters she wrote you and never sent, and then nail it to your front door."

"That's oddly specific," Steve said lightly from where he was working a knife around the sides of a nearly empty mayonnaise jar.

"Don't worry about it, darling." Tony traded him for the mustard. "Anyway, up to you if you want it."

Bucky watched with growing horror as Clint smoothed out the note and took out his phone. He typed for a while then smiled, and everything Bucky had been trying to build over the last few weeks came crashing down, like Clint had ripped out the single, bottom Jenga brick and it had all tumbled into Bucky's lap.

He'd been crazy to think this would work.

His next breath caught, and Bucky stumbled out into the hall, fingers twisting into the front of his shirt as if somehow his clothes were the problem. He braced a hand against the wall and coughed and coughed, unable to draw a deep enough breath to convince his brain he wasn't drowning. He kept trying which hit the painful limit of his lessened lung capacity and set off more coughing. His eyes sprung up with tears as he heaved and choked on nothing.

A touch against his side made Bucky jump, but he was hit with another coughing fit. He couldn't focus on anything else but sucking air through his teeth and trying not to pass out. The hand moved down to his pocket and rummaged around then appeared in Bucky's vision, inhaler gripped tightly. The end was pressed to his lips.

"Come on, Buck," Clint said softly. "Breathe."

Bucky caught the inhaler between his lips, waited until Clint pressed the button, then sucked in hard. The medicine flooded his lungs and a moment later, they relaxed, panic subsiding. Bucky worked on small, choppy breaths until he was back to normal. His new normal anyway.

Clint's hand landed on his shoulder and squeezed gently. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks." Bucky twisted until his back hit the wall and sunk down until he was sitting on the floor. Clint sat beside him. Was that how it was going to happen? One day - one day soon - he'd start coughing and not be able to stop. The inhaler would do nothing. He'd just - fail to breathe. What if that happened around Clint? Or Steve? They wouldn't know what to do; they'd panic. Bucky couldn't do that to them, to anyone.

He'd have to leave. It was the only thing that made sense. His month was up in two days, and he'd spent almost all of it orbiting around Clint like a love-lost moon, so really any day could be the day where an attack hit him so hard he couldn't come back. He'd have to leave, so they wouldn't have to watch him die.

"Want to go for a walk?" Buck asked, leaving off the _one last_ that his mind supplied anyway. After this, he'd spend some time with Steve, and then… he'd just disappear. Maybe he could leave a note. Maybe there was some way to convince them he was okay, happy somewhere. Was that worse? He didn't know. He didn't even know where he would go, he just… couldn't be here when it happened.

"You sure you're up for that?" Clint's brow furrowed with concern.

"Yeah." Buck stood and reached out a hand to haul Clint up next to him. "Fresh air is exactly what I need."

"Alright." Clint shot him an encouraging smile and gave his back a pat. He stuck his head back in the room and gave a thumbs-up, presumably to placate the worried team, then led the way to the elevator.

Lucky was, as usual, beside himself to see his two favourite people reaching for the leash, but Bucky found it hard to drum up his usual amusement. This would be his last walk with these two. Lucky whined and shoved his face in Bucky's crotch, begging for ear scritches which Bucky obliged, swallowing hard against another rush of pain. His chest and throat ached from his earlier coughing fit, but he firmly ignored it.

Outside, the sky was clear, but they'd clearly just missed a passing rainstorm. The sidewalk was damp and dotted with puddles in every dip, and water rushed down the streets and into the sewer grates. It smelled damp and refreshed, even under the heavy weight of New York smog.

Lucky leapt from puddle to puddle with absolute delight, drinking from one, splashing his paws in another, and lying down fully with a huge smile and lolling tongue when they were deep enough to do so.

Bucky led the way to their favourite park, his ribs twinging painfully as he remembered sitting on the bench and first realizing how he felt about the man beside him. Those feelings weighed heavily in his chest now, but they'd also become a part of who he was. If he lived for another hundred years, he was pretty sure he'd always love Clint Barton. But of course, he only had days, maybe weeks left.

The park was wet and spongy, the grass collecting mud and water whenever the ground dipped low. Clint let Lucky off leash, and he bounded off into his favourite copse of trees. "So, hey. Did you see they opened a laser tag place in Brooklyn? It's supposed to be badass, geared to adults and stuff. We should go!"

Clint's enthusiasm reached into Bucky's chest, grabbed his heart, and twisted it sharply. He smacked a hand involuntarily to his chest, fingers digging in. It hurt, all of it hurt so much. His lungs hurt, his heart hurt, his head hurt. Maybe he should just tell him? But Clint was smiling at him, all open and eager, and all Bucky could do was nod. "Sure. We'll go."

"Oh my god!" Clint yelped, and Bucky spun. He smacked a hand over his mouth to stop himself from snorting. Lucky, usually light blond, was grey and black from head to foot. Even his tongue was covered in a streak of dark mud. "What did you do?!"

"Are you sure that's Lucky?" Bucky asked with a snort.

Clint groaned and dropped his face into his hands. He threw the leash at Bucky. "He's all yours!"

Clint grumbled the whole way home, recounting, overdramatically, every time that Lucky had been a Bad Dog, while Bucky gazed at him affectionately, unable to hide the stars in his eyes when Clint went off like that. Distracted by his rage, Clint didn't seem to notice, so Bucky indulged himself, letting all the feelings he'd learned to hide show on his face.

They left a trail of dark footprints from the front door, up the elevator, and down the hall to Clint's apartment door.

"Look, it's only fair that you caused this and therefore you have to help clean it up," Clint pointed out, stabbing one mud-covered finger at Bucky's chest.

"Caused it? It was your mutt that caused it!" Bucky tightened his metal fingers around Lucky's collar to stop him from diving through the open apartment door and rolling mud on everything.

"You suggested we go out in this weather."

"The weather is fine _now,_ it just wasn't fine _earlier,_ and it's not my fault your animal has a mud puddle fetish." But Clint turned puppy dog eyes to match Lucky's on Bucky, and he could feel himself caving, his free hand coming up to rub lightly at his chest where the iron band tightened a little more every time Clint looked his way. It was risky to spend more time with Clint, he knew he was just dragging out the inevitable, but he couldn't bring himself to leave just yet.

"C'mon Bucky. He hates baths, it's the only thing he really struggles with. And I know he wants to be good, but he gets scared and tries to jump out. I could really use your help."

Bucky tugged at Lucky's collar, leading the once yellow, and now mostly brown and grey, labrador towards the bathroom door. "Never said I wasn't gonna help," he grumbled, feeling Clint grinning behind his back.

Lucky put the brakes on when he saw where they were heading, but he was no match for Bucky's metal arm. Clint's bathroom was as fancy as the rest of theirs, his shower a huge, tiled space with glass walls. Bucky walked right into the enclosure with Lucky in tow. Cint followed behind, not bothering to remove any off his mud-covered clothes. He stood inside the shower, in front of the doors, blocking Lucky with his legs when he made a bid for the exit.

Bucky switched on the water, but he wasn't sure which switch was for the handheld spray head, so instead the water came cascading out of the ceiling. They both yelped, and Clint scrambled across the shower to smack at the controls while Bucky dove for Lucky who was once again diving for the exit - now unprotected.

They all ended up in a sodden, muddy mess on the tile floor, Bucky on his ass with Lucky practically climbing into his lap to escape the water, Clint on one knee, only his deathgrip on the shower handle keeping him from spilling all the way to the floor, one leg tangled with Lucky's. The water kept raining down, soaking them both and flowing - grey with dirt - down the drain beneath them.

It was too ridiculous; Bucky burst out laughing. He clutched Lucky to his chest, rubbing a soothing hand over his ears and choked out peals of laughter into his fur. He was a fucking grown man - and once the world's most deadly assassin - and a muddy dog had brought him to the ground with little to no effort.

He pulled back, leaning against the cool tile, blinking water out of his eyes, and his next breath was too easy. He sucked in another one - no hitch, no catch. He panicked. Bucky's first, terrible, horrible thought was that he'd somehow managed to fall out of love with Clint. Because after weeks, he'd come to associate that tightness, that pressure at the bottom of his lungs, with his feelings for Clint. Like he needed a space to store them, and that was the only place they could stay, and as they grew, the room for other things, like oxygen, disappeared.

But when he looked up and caught Clint's eye, the butterflies were there, the singing, and the little thrill, and all the moisture disappearing from his mouth. That hadn't changed. But something else had changed. When their eyes met, Clint's mouth tightened, his cheeks coloured, and he looked away, flailing around wildly until he found the bottle of dog shampoo and fiddling with the cap.

Bucky felt heat spring into his eyes. Fuck, he'd done it. He'd really - "I love you," he choked out, too overwhelmed to process whether saying it out loud was a good idea or not.

Clint's eyes snapped back to his, going wide. They flickered over to Lucky, as if he was thinking (hoping?) that he was who Bucky had been talking to, but Bucky's gaze didn't waver from where it was settled on Clint. He took in several great, gasping breaths, just to prove he could, then charged across the small space to pull Clint into his arms, still sitting on the tile shower floor.

Clint tensed at first, but quickly softened into the hug, wrapping his arms around Bucky's neck with a slap of wet fabric. The cool water continued to rain over them, and Bucky knew his metal arm would be icy against Clint's skin, but he couldn't let him go just yet. He burrowed his face into Clint's neck, wet hair plastered between them, and sucked in clear breath after breath against his damp skin.

"Buck…" Clint stroked his hand up and down Bucky's back. "What's wrong?"

Bucky finally pulled back but not too far, one hand landing on Clint's knee, and the other still wrapped around his waist. He shook water out of his hair and let out one sharp bark of laughter - the feelings inside him needing some sort of release. "You love me…" he said softly, looking back up to catch Clint's startled eyes.

Clint spluttered for a moment then swallowed heavily. "Well… yeah, but I only just - _how do you know?"_

"Because I can breathe again." And he tipped down and pressed his lips to Clint's. He kept the kiss quick and chaste - just because he finally loved him, didn't mean Clint wanted to be kissed - but arms wound round his neck again and drew him in close, pressing the kiss deeper, not letting it end.

They were both soaking wet, and the water kept pounding down. Clint's skin was goose-pimpled and chilled under Bucky's hands, and even though he had no warmth to offer, he still hauled Clint in as close as he could, wrapping their bodies together. Clint shifted up into Bucky's lap and tipped his chin to catch the perfect angle. Bucky licked water droplets from his lips as Clint furrowed his fingers through Bucky's wet hair, using the grip to hold on tight.

When Clint finally pulled back, forehead pressed to Bucky's. Bucky found himself breathless for an entirely new reason.

A shudder rippled it's way down Clint's spine, and his teeth started chattering, so Bucky hauled them both up to their feet and cranked the tap over to hot. They both sighed with relief as the temperature shifted, and, huddled together, they stood under the spray and let it chase away the chill.

Lucky had taken his opportunity to bail and was all the way at the other end of the bathroom, pressed against the door, a dark streak marring the white paint where he leaned. Clint stripped down to his boxers shamelessly, dumping his dirty clothes in a wet heap on the floor, then stepped out to get Lucky and bring him back in. Bucky shrugged and followed suit, trying to keep his eyes off the way the wet cotton of Clint's boxers clung to his ass, leaving next to nothing to the imagination.

Between the two of them, and with the shower spray switched to the handheld, they managed to coax Lucky back into the shower. They scrubbed him up together, sitting on the tile floor with the dog between them, Bucky's legs stretched out on either side and each of Clint's bent over top. They worked the shampoo into Lucky's fur, shamelessly letting their fingers catch and tangle in the middle, sharing quiet smiles over the grumpy dog.

Every easy inhale was a reminder that not only was Bucky okay, he was loved. Clint loved him. And now they had every chance of a future together, however Clint wanted to spend it.

When Lucky was clean and rinsed, they let him go - to no doubt roll himself dry on Clint's bed - and piled all the clothes and towels in the corner of the shower enclosure. "Those are later-Clint's problem," Clint said with a smile.

Bucky leaned back against the bathroom counter, one hand pressed against his chest to marvel at the way his lungs spread wide without hitching or catching, and Clint shuffled up between his legs. Bucky wrapped his arms around his waist and drew him in tighter. He was warm now - still wet, but clad only in their boxers, Bucky could feel every soft inch of his skin pressed against him. "We don't have to do this," Bucky said carefully. "Really, it's perfect just to know how you feel. We don't have to do anything at all."

"Don't be silly," Clint said with a wink and a kiss. "I love you. I want you. And Lucky needs his two dads together."

For the first time in nearly seventy years, Bucky could breathe.

 

* * *

 

 

 [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/158209291@N04/29417980798/in/dateposted-public/)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can see me on tumblr at festiveferret.tumblr.com and phae at phaeshmae.tumblr.com.
> 
> <33

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Art] Breathless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15214418) by [phae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae)




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